Tulchan Plot

Tulchan Plot

The day was warm and breezy and the rolling wind wound around the ancient, dark stones of the manor house’s high walls, ruffling between ivy curtains and chasing out long hidden leaves of last autumn from their cobwebbed sepulchers. The sky was clear, with a sharp clarity that almost made it unbearable, were it not for the little wind’s company as it played with the edges of our garments.

The young boy that stood before her reproachful gaze looked oddly comical, wearing boots that were obviously much too big for him. But he would grow into them, as she would say. His straw hat was clutched in dirty fingers, generations of mud beneath the finger nails of his sun bronzed hands. He looked for all the world to be a true son of Adam, taken from his side and from the earth itself; an embodiment of the summer sun and the red clay of the earth and the steady and true things in life. And yet now, his bright eyes dropped to that same steady ground as he heard her harsh voice.

“Today, young man, you shall receive your inheritance. This parcel of land, here between the manor house and the main gateway is yours by birth and blood and right of heaven. You may do with it what you want. However, I expect nothing but the best from you. This land was cleared by your forefathers, who plowed that hard clay, pulled out the roots and rocks, worked the soil till it became warm and soft and receptive to all life. This is your inheritance. The reward for their heavy toil and labor comes down to your decisions.”

She paused, letting the wind catch a stray, solitary strand of her irongrey hair. She deftly plucked it from the wind and held it forth in between her finger and thumb.

“This land is fragile. Its balance is thin. As thin as a strand of an old woman’ hair. Look after your works. Take care what seed you allow to fall on it. Let it lie fallow for a time, so that it may be enriched once more, and prepare it for the day that you plant that seed. And then, take care. If you plant more than you can support you will regret it. Plant only one kind of seed. Heed my warning. I shall provide you with adequate supply soon.”

And so we left him there in his oversized boots and straw hat. As we walked away, back towards the gleaming white manor house with its large windows covered in shade, his eyes rose up from the ground and met mine. They burned with a passion. A strong desire. And something deeper I could not place.

For several years I watched the boy and his plot from a high window in the library of the manor house. He followed her every word. He let it lie fallow. He plowed it and weeded it and continually worked nutrients into it, to prepare it for the day he would sow the precious seeds she would give him. When it hardened in winter’s cold, he broke the ice and placed more straw on it to keep it warm and alive. When the summer storms threatened to wash his work away, he built walls and covers and dug deep wells for the waters. And when the times of drought came, he drew from the storm wells and kept the soil from drying out and becoming hard. He kept his plot well.

Then came the appointed day. I was not allowed to go with her to his plot and so could only observe the pantomime from the window. There he was, still too small for his boots, and clutching a much more worn straw hat in much larger and dirtier hands. And there she was, prim and proper as death itself, or more accurately a high judge in black robes with her white hair in curls on her head. She handed him a small, burlap pouch, which he took and gently carried to the center of the plot. Then she turned and walked back to the Manor, her sharp eyes meeting mine for a second, a chill filling the room as I could hear the echoes of her words already.

Soon afterwards, small rows of bright green appeared in the brown square that was his inheritance. He stood guard day and night over them, protecting them from frost, birds, beetles, and any other robber of nature that would try to take them from him. They were all he had and he would have protected them with his very life. And so, filled with sympathy for his plight, I descended the staircase one night when the moon was full and pale and white and beautiful and the air was warm and fragrant.

I walked along the white pebbled path, a small burlap sack beneath my arm. I walked to the gate of the wall he had built around it reaching up to my waist. He was there, cloaked in the shadows, smoking a corncob pipe as he watched me stand there. He hoped down and walked with his barefeet through the neat rows of small shadows.

“I-I brought you something for your garden. Since you don’t have any other seed.” And quickly placed the bag atop the wall and ran back to the manor house, unsure of what I feared so greatly. I felt his eyes upon me even as I ran. Then, reaching the great library window I looked back out toward his plot, and saw with dismay, that everything was as before. He sat in the corner, watching his rows, and the small burlap sack sat untouched, and seeming forgotten, on the wall.

The next few weeks and months he did not seem to mind the sack at all, as if he did not even see it. If I had only known how he struggled to keep his vow to her, that he would not plant anything else, that he would plant only that which he could tend to. I did not know then, but each morning, he forced himself to once more take joy in his rows of bright green leaves and refuse to even look at the haunting bag on the wall. He did not even dare to touch it, for fear of the temptation that would assail him. And so he left it, and I was left confused, and the rows of bright green grew taller.

It was sometime in the month of May when the blight struck. There was no way to protect the little green leaves from it. There was no way to cure the ones that got it. As if cruel fate threw a horrid die made of yellowed and cracked baby’s bones, to decide that some would live and some would die merely based off of chance and not merit. In a day and night I saw him loose almost all his crop. He cried that morning, on his hands and knees in the field surrounded by yellowed and black wilted leaves, burying his face in that same brown ground. And as my own eyes began to tear, he looked up, as if seeing me and my tears and my window and my world, and walked towards the wall. He took up the burlap bag I gave him, took a fist full of gleaming silvery-white oblong seeds and threw them with force across the dark earth. Then he fell to his knees and darkness came with the night.

For the next few days there seemed to be no hope. Then the first faint tendrils of turquoise-blue greenery broke through the ground in a spread out array like stars bursting into life in the cold reaches of the universe. He moved again. He stood up again. He surveyed his field and smiled again. And he looked to me, again as if seeing me, and smiled at me behind my glassy wall. For a few weeks all seemed right again. Then there was the night of the frost.

To this day, I’m not quite certain of what mechanics were involved or what scientific reactions occurred. Some have postulated that it was related to the ideas of hibernation and dormancy. Others have suggested a fungus mimicking blight was responsible and that the frost killed it. I have contented myself with naming it, frankly, a miracle. But the worst kind of miracle, one which comes after it is no longer looked for… and perhaps even desired. In short, the morning after the frost, all awoke to find the small rows of withered plants restored to their natural greenish hue. Not a single one had perished.

At first I assumed he would jump and shout for joy as his precious crop had been salvaged. But he didn’t. He looked about himself, standing in the plot surrounded by bright green rows and turquoise-green tendrils, and he seemed to be in shock. A dark cloud had come over the bright horizon of dawn and with it, his face fell into shadow once more. Then I realized his thoughts. He had disobeyed her. He had planted more than one kind of seed.

I watched him bow down on his hands and knees and reach for the nearest tendril of turquoise. Knowing him, he would go and weed out ever last one of those small plants, snuffing out their young lives before they had ever begun. Yet even as I was ready to turn away, he stopped. His hand quivered slightly as he stayed there, frozen. I grabbed a nearby pair of opera glasses and held them to my face. As I strained to see, the image in the lenses came into focus and I gasped. There, upon the thin tendril was a single, beautiful flower of perfect white, its ridges brushed with silver. Even from a distance it was breathtaking. Now I understood his hesitation. And his regret. And his dilemma.

He knew he had been commanded to plant the rows of the bright green shoots, that if he followed her directions his plot would be successful and he would fill his boots someday. But yet, he had seen the potential in the flower. The potential for beauty in this seed that had found its way into his ground. And now, he could not bare to pluck up the beautiful flower that had sprung up. On one hand was prudence, wisdom, and direction. On the other was beauty, affection, and love. Yet, he had also loved his neat rows of bright greenery once. And too, there was a certain prudence and wisdom in recognizing the virility of the turquoise vines in the ground.

However, the moral dilemma was cut short. She decided to visit him the next day. And this time, I was to accompany them. She walked as I had before, along the white cobblestone path towards his plot, her long black dress and white hair once more reminding me of a spectral judge on her way to pass judgment and damnation. We arrived at the gate and he walked toward us, boots on his feet and hat in hand.

“Well, it seems I made a mistake in entrusting this land to one at such a young and foolhardy age!” She did not mince words, and her tongue was sharpened steel that could slice through softest flesh and arguments straight into one’s soul.

“Beggin’ your pardon but, no, ma’am. I’ve been taking very good care of it.” He said, his eyes burning with indignant fire as he met her gaze.

A smile crawled across her lips, as if she were baring her fangs at him to subdue this new rebellion against her commandment-words, “Really? And how do you take ‘good care’ of things? By letting random seed stock interplant with that which was chosen? By deliberately disobeying clear orders? If this is how you care for your own land, may you never toil a drop of sweat on mine!”

He did not respond, still meeting her proud gaze with his own stubborn one. I could have sworn he sunk a bit lower into the ground, either to draw strength from the solid bedrock, or by the sheer weight of her personality. Either way, she gazed down at him and spoke tartly.

“You had such potential to work with too. The stock I gave you. They are all sunflowers, the largest and most beautiful kind. Their roots loosen the solid clay beneath the soil, allowing you to plant more things next year. They each produce a hundred seeds that can be pressed for oil to light your way when you guard at night, or ground to flour so you can have bread in winter. Their flower heads can be sold at market for a high price, enough for you to purchase any seed you want, or even build a small cottage on your plot, so you wouldn’t have to sleep out in the rain. Yes, their flowers are their most glorious part. These are all the shades found in the sunrise and sunset, the deep bronzes, the shining yellows, the burning reds. All captured in a flower.”

His cheeks burned red as she spoke, either from embarrassment or from anger, when he quickly reach down and plucked up a bunch of the fast spreading vine’s of turquoise, saying, “And these make beautiful flowers too! And they grow much better and faster. They naturally love this soil and weather and country. They trace their line back to when all this manor were just a wide meadow full of hinds and harts and hares and wildness.”

She smirked at his response, plucking a single vine with two blossoms on it out and holding it up as she spoke, “Ah yes, but of course. The ancient Moonblossom. How could I forget its linage. And you speak truly. It loves this country so much it blooms year round, in hottest sun or coldest snow, spring, fall, summer, and winter, its blooms deck the countryside. But you cannot eat them or their hard, bitter fruit. You cannot burn their oil for light. They may bloom everywhere, but that also makes them common. No one will buy your perennial blooms. Don’t you understand? It is pointless to grow them!”

“But why must he choose!” I hear myself calling out.

I trembled then, for fear that her gaze of leaden iron would fall on me and I would sink down into the very heart of the earth. But her gaze was fixed and locked into that of the angry boy’s gaze, like two harts locked during rutting season. She did not turn her eyes as she answered.

“Simple. Those vines will wrap around the Sunflower stalks and smother them, killing tem all before their heads will fully develop. That is, if the Sunflower roots don’t kill the vine’s first. You see, as with many choices in life where you would want both, you can only choose one. It is like taking a journey from the Manor to the market. There are two roads to take, but if you take one you cannot take the other. There is no way to take both at the same time. Choice is life.”

I turned my gaze from her cold face to that of the angry boy whose eyes were sparkling now as his turmoil began to surface. He now fully understood why he should keep the Sunflowers. And yet he knew why he loved the Moonblossoms. And he could now see, that he would have to choose one to let live and one to pluck up. The corner of her mouth rose slightly as if in victory, that she had prevailed.

“I-I…”

“How much time does he have to make his decision?” I asked, daring her wrath to speak again.

“A little while longer. You don’t have to pluck anything up just yet. But the longer you let things take root, the harder and more painful it will be when the time comes to pull it out.” She warned gravely before adding, “But make sure you make your decision soon. The longer the two grow together in your plot, the more they will harm each other’s growth, and the more likely you are to loose both of them.”

And with that she turned and began walking back towards the house. He furrowed his brow in contemplation and sat down the small wall, once more looking down at the ground. I turned and followed behind her, and as we were walking she stopped and spoke without turning.

“This is your ground. I will not force you to adhere to my rules and guidelines gained through years of experience and infinite wisdom, especially if you are so adamant about making your decision. But just make a choice. Any decision is better than no decision at all. Personally, I don’t see your logic for keeping the Moonflowers…”

He answered without looking up, “There are no accidents.”

Her patronizing smile faded, as if his single sentence has spoken much more to her. I felt as if I should say something. Something to comfort him. Something to advise him. Something to rebuke her for her harsh, uncaring words. Anything to break the silence. But nothing came. Then she answered softly, almost gently,

“I pray you find the meaning behind it then, and soon.”

On Pacifism

On Pacifism

Pacifism, as an idea, as a concept, as a creed and a standard and a life defining principle, is essentially a reaction to war. Therefore, in order to understand pacifist and their reasoning one must first understand war and its reasoning. Only by grasping what pacifism is reacting to can one understand why it advocates for the things it does, why it has gained so much popularity, and why some individuals feel threatened by it.

War is a type of conflict, and therefore, before a full understanding of war can be grasped conflict must first be defined and understood. The reason why people, especially Christians, have an instant emotional reaction against pacifism often arises out of this failure to understand the nature of conflict.

Throughout human civilized history and society, there has existed an ideal tranquility or harmony that all civilized societies strove to reach. The ancient Egyptians named it Ma’at, the concept that there was a divine order that society needed in order to function. To abandon this concept of order, was to abandon civilization and would lead to chaos and uncertainty. This ordered, structured, societal neutral medium called civilization consists basically of the idea that one looks to one’s own (tribe/household/family/self) while allowing others to do likewise without interference.

However, this ideal structure of society begins to fall apart when one’s own interest or gain, comes at the expense or in competition, with that of another. This is the birth of conflict. Within all conflict there exists these two parties. The Initiator, is the party that decides to challenge the status quo of the ideal structure, and therefore strives to affect and change that. The second party, however, is just as vital to the creation of conflict, the Reactionary. The Reactionary is the kindling to the spark of the Initiator. Reactionaries may simply uphold the status quo, or be challengers of it as well, but in a manner in contest with the Initiator. Without either of these there is no conflict.

Since conflict is composed of these two parties, there then develops three ideal forms of conflict resolution. In the Socratic Model, both parties involved in conflict approach it with the intent of reaching a common ground/goal/good. In his model, Socrates implied that conflict should be aimed at reaching a resolution in which both parties “win”. This form of conflict resolution, the “win-win” form, often takes the most time and effort, things humans loath to part with, and so, is not commonly found in historical endeavors for resolution of conflicts.

In the Common Model of resolution, one party gains victory while the other is left to defeat. This is by far the most commonly used conflict resolution strategy as it takes less time, less effort, and allows for more aggression. The common form has often been the immediate response of humanity, because of the inherit selfishness of human nature, to simply demand or force ones own right or way, without thought or regard to the state of others/competitors/rivals. However, this form of conflict resolution is not particularly stable, as often the “loosing” party will not accept the “winners” new status quo and therefore, the “loosing” party will become Initiators in another conflict. This is clearly seen with the end of WWI, in which the Allied demands attached to the Treaty of Versailles not only drove the formation of the Axis power, but actually led to the rise of Hitlter’s power and then WWII. Therefore, the common model is prone to instability, although it is still the preferred method of conflict resolution.

The final model of conflict resolution is essentially war. During war, both parties, Initiators and Reactionaries, go into the conflict expecting to loose money, resources, and lives. When war is chosen as a model, it appears that its result is similar to the Common Model, “win-loose” but in fact, in war, there are no winners. Both Initiators and Reactionaries loose when war is the medium of conflict resolution. The reasoning behind it is as follows.

Firstly, during a war, lives are lost. There have been very few bloodless battles in history, and no bloodless wars, at least in what constitutes a war. Even the loss of a single life to a nation, people, tribe, group, or clan is disadvantageous. That one individual’s potential to aid society and humanity has been cut short. While it’s true that most soldiers would not end up being the next Socrates, Galileo, Leonardo Da Vinci, or Shakespeare, there is no certain way of guaranteeing that they aren’t. All individuals who have added to human culture and humanity as a whole have been just that, individuals. Therefore, the loss of a single individual, while often considered minute, may in fact be the greatest loss a society, people group, or nation suffers. Many great writers, painters, poets, philosophers, thinkers, inventors, sculptors, and engineers have all had military service, and had they been killed in battle, their life’s work would not have been left for us today.

In relation to this, there has never been a time when the cost of war was only felt by the Initiators and Reactionaries. The cost of war, emotionally, physically, mentally, and developmentally has always impacted spectators, civilians, bystanders, children, and those who had no part in the conflict. Children especially have suffered because of war. Whether they have been the children of soldiers killed in battle, left to grow up without a parent, or the children who are raped, killed, enslaved, tortured, or brutalized as “spoils” of war. While many societies have attempted to curb this cost on the innocent with codes of war (Samurai code, Chivalric code, Geneva Convention, etc.) historically their attempts have failed. Even today that is clearly seen in the “spoils of war” that American troops collected when they took over the Abu-Grebe prison and its political prisoners, many of whom were Christians who had been sent there by Saddam Hussein. The impact of war on children has further repercussions, as they are then desensitized to violence at a young age and brought up in a culture in which war and revenge are then portrayed as the socially acceptable means of conflict resolution. This then leads to further wars, and creates a never-ending cycle.

This illustrates another aspect in which the War Model of conflict resolution fails. All conflict is meant to have an end. The purpose of conflict is goal orientated, namely, for either one or both parties to change the status quo and thereby become “winners”, by attaining a different status quo or reaching a place where the current status quo is now acceptable. Whoever, because of War’s affect in creating two sides who both feel the status quo is unacceptable, this makes war endless. Current conflicts in North and South Korea, as well as in Pakistan, Afganhistan, Darfur, Sudan, and Iraq all illustrate this, as they have no foreseeable end. In the example of the War in Iraq, the more the war goes on, the more the militant forced in Iraq are justified in their struggle and the more they fight. The more of them the US kills, the more their children take up arms against the US in retaliation. The more US soldiers they kill creates a greater sympathy for the war, and justifies it in the political system and the general public’s eye, thereby increasing troop numbers. Theoretically, the only way for a war to actually end is for one side to completely wipe out the other side, thereby establishing their dominance without leaving anyone that can retaliate. Obviously, this is not an acceptable model of conflict resolution.

Even historically, wars have been endless. An example is the war between the English and the Irish, which is still going on from its inception in the early 12th century. It has been officially declared and officially ended time and time again, however, neither side has ever reached a place of forgiveness, and instead retaliation and revenge by the unacceptable status quo enforced afterward has caused its most recent incarnation, the Irish Troubles, to end with an uneasy peace and a renewal of conflict soon afterwards. Like all other wars, this 800 year long war has found most of its casualties in the form of innocent civilians.

To return to the larger issue, many people have ideas that all conflict is either good or bad. To believe that all conflict is good, means that peace and tranquility is undesirable. To believe all conflict is bad, means that submission and injustice must be tolerated. Neither of these situations are acceptable, because neither of them come from an understanding of what conflict is. As shown above, there are many forms of conflict, some more desirable and affective than others. Conflict comes from humans and so it has the very human nature to be either good or bad, depending on how it is used.

Conflict can end oppression. Conflict can heal old wounds. Conflict can actually be the vehicle for greater peace, understanding, and love in a society. However, conflict can bring death, destruction, misunderstanding, great harm, great injustice, great oppression, and great hate. Conflict is neither good nor evil. To turn to conflict as an answer to all problem or to shun its use completely are both foolish ways of using it. Conflict is a tool. It is up to humanity to decide whether to build bridges or break heads with it.

War is a type of conflict in which there is no resolution. War is a type of conflict in which there is no healing. War is a type of conflict in which neither party is, as Socrates put it, searching for common understanding and mutual enlightenment to understand a problem and overcome it. War is a cheap out with a great expense. War is the easy path, which leads to suffering that never ends. War is by nature, not a good form of conflict resolution.

That doesn’t mean that there have not been some good side affects of war. Wars have general increased nationalism, which in some areas have led to increased culture and art, though heavily influenced by propaganda and government censorship. Wars have also stimulated economies which were on the verge of self destruction. However, in the current global economic market, that is no longer a viable way of economic reform, as wars no longer increase production, only expenses. Wars have at times temporarily alleviated the human situation, as found at the end of WWII, with the stop of Hitler’s eradication of the Jewish, disable, immigrant, homosexual, and Christian sections of European population. However, wars are at their core profit, not principle, motivated. As for alleviating the human situation, other forms of conflict have shown much greater progress with lasting change, such as the boycotts of the civil rights movement in the USA, or the hunger protests led by Ghandi for Indian Independence.

For all these reasons and many more, War is not a rational decision to make. For something to be a purely rational decision, the benefits must outweigh the costs. There are very few benefits that come from war, and even less that have lasting impact. The true cost of war is incalculable in that the effects and repercussions of wars last for generations. Even just a purely financial cost for wars is uncountable, in the amount of potential economic stimulus lost by the lives lost, brain drain affect by lives lost and defectors during war time, and resources depleted with minimal or no gain. And then that is just the beginning, as future conflicts that arise from the treaties made at the end of wars in order to cover part of the massive expenses then lead to further wars whose expenses can then be traced to that war and should be included as a cost of that war. Some people may quip at the “money wasted by NGOs such as the UN” but compared to the cost of war, it is a very minute price to pay. War is an irrational decision as the cost is just too great.

While war is irrational, it is also not simply an emotional reaction. Emotionally, war is traumatic. War is brutal. It involves massive amounts of death, carnage, destruction, hatred, anger, aggression, fear, and repression. Emotionally, war is one of the unhealthiest things a person can do. Those leaders who start wars no longer take part in them, for a very good reason. They need the emotional distance to make the decision they make. If they knew each soldier they sent into battle personally, and had to watch as they died, they would probably commit suicide or go insane. From a psychological stand point, in order to “make” a soldier who can act under the pressure of war and deal with the amount of emotional trauma that any normal, healthy, human would experience during battle, the person’s mind, will, and emotions must be completely broken down and rebuilt so that they see the entire world from a dualistic paradigm, therefore breaking down where they may question what is right and wrong, and on a mental level, giving them the same kind of psychological barrier to face reality that is found in serial killers. They perform essentially the same activities, and require the human mind to be insulated in the same way otherwise they would not be able to carry out their acts. This is not to perjorate soldiers, but to show that aside from those mental barriers of dualism, which say that anyone who isn’t on my side is my enemy and is evil and deserves to die, the only type of human being who would be able to wage war would be a psychopath or sociopath whose mind is already unable to register empathy or human suffering. War is therefore not emotionally acceptable to healthy human beings either.

If war is neither logical nor emotionally driven, then why do individuals go to war? Many have postulated that it seems to be the only answer humanity has had for a long time. Since ancient Egyptian times, when they worshiped the tranquil order or Ma’at, humans have viewed war as being a last resort of sorts, when all others fail, in order to preserve ourselves, our culture, and our tranquility. War has been labeled a necessary evil in order to preserve the greater good. In tribal or Abrahamic times, this may very well have been the case, that people had no other choice but to choose violence as a means of self defense and self preservation. However, during those times people also trekked from place to place in a nomadic lifestyles, herded goats, lacked toilets and toilet paper, did not brush their teeth, married at young ages, died at younger ages, killed girl children when they wanted sons, had none of our modern conveniences, could not read, and in general lived and functioned much differently then we do today. To justify war based on tribal times would be equivocal to justify infanticide based on those same practices at those same times. Humanity is set apart from animals in that we progress. We are not the same we were 2,000 years ago, or 200 years ago or even 20 years ago. Why should our method for dealing with conflict remain the same?

Pacifism may be taken too far in some cases, with people who will not allow any kind of conflict. However, that is not true pacifism. That is simply a person who struggles with people pleasing and who wants to make everyone happy. A pacifist knows there are times to be an Initiator of conflict, but that they will remain in control of the conflict they initiate, that they will not allow it to progress into a lesser form of conflict resolution. They seek to allow not only themselves to benefit from the resolution, but everyone, the Reactionary and even non-participants. A true pacifist see the need to take their eyes of their own situation and circumstance, and understand the other parties involved in the conflict too. A pacifist draws a wider circle around themselves, taking care not only of their own, but of everyone. We are not tribal anymore. We build larger buildings that last longer. We have larger cities that look grander. We make larger plans for the distant future. Can we not, then, take a larger view when it comes to conflict? Can we not recognize that everyone is human? That everyone wants to win? That everyone wants that Ma’at, that peace? There was a time when this was merely a dream. But no more. We have the UN. We have ambassadors. We have cultural ties. We have no more excuses to go to war.

A Note on Christians and Pacifism

From a Christian stand point, there is even further evidence of the need for pacifism. While the Old Testament was full of warriors who killed the enemies of God, we find in the New Testament that our weapons are not carnal but meant to cast down spiritual strongholds. We wrestle not against flesh and blood but against spiritual things. Make no mistake, there is a time for peace and a time for war, but that time for war is a spiritual war when we are called to step out and take authority and break the strongman, e.g. Satan and his forces. Even in the Old Testament times, God said that David could not build His house because he was a man of bloody hands. Jesus commands us to love our enemies, bless them that curse us, and do good to those that despitefully use us or persecute us. We are commanded to turn the other cheek, to forgive, to love. The Early Church, which was suppose to be the closest example of what Jesus wanted the church to be like, would pray for and love their persecutors even as they were persecuted. They did not fight back. They submitted. They loved. They died. And there were added thousands to their numbers daily because of it. The Bible makes it clear, he who lives by the sword will die by it. Even if the world does not accept pacifism, we as Christians should, as it was one of the clear principles established not only by the New Testament writers but by Jesus himself. All of the reasons for war are discredited by the Bible. We are not to take revenge because vengeance is our Gods. We are not to defend ourselves because the glory of the Lord will be our rear guard. We are not to worry about tomorrow, what it will bring or how we will defend ourselves because the Lord our God, Jehova-Jireh will provide a defense. And as Paul writes, we are to have a perspective that to live is Christ and to die is gain. Not that we are to seek death (especially in warfare) but that we are to keep that perspective that life is temporal and loving people is the only thing that lasts. One of the key emotions that justifies war is fear. God has not given us a spirit of fear but of love, power, and a sound mind. A sound mind, as has been shown above, would not accept war. The Bible makes it clear, war and violence are two things that came to the cross and did not go through it. They are part of an older system that we need to leave at the cross and instead pick up love, forgiveness, and the peace of the Lord which surpasses all understanding.

Another Day...

How can you measure the start of a day?
With waking up, or the first words you say
Or woken from your darkest dreams
By the anguish of your own fearful screams.

Try so hard to get in that old Book
With is repetitious phrases and mirror-like look
Sometimes so easy, but today, I’ll be frank
The page I just read my just well have been blank

This is a thought in the day in the life
Of a walk in the park in my shoes and my strife
Ugly, unsure when made so bare
You can judge if you want but I just won’t care

Going about the paths of my day
I try to be noble, to smile, and recall the Way
But it’s so easy to flip to the other coin-side
Even though I made those promises, I guess I lied

Frustration play with me a game of wack-a-mole
I loose my patience, with these people so droll
Then a thought, a memory, that blank page from before
The coin flips again, and I’m on my knees once more

This is a thought in the day in the life
Of a walk in the park in my shoes and my strife
Ugly, unsure when made so bare
You can judge if you want but I just won’t care

My mind runs non-stop in its deep grey folds
I replay the past, where I should’ve been more bold
I look at myself, in the mirror with disgust
So much to change, I hate change, but I must

What about the future, the decisions coming soon
They tear me apart, morning, night, and noon
I try to worm out, to logicise and legitimize
But I’m merely wasting time, I begin to realize

This is a thought in the day in the life
Of a walk in the park in my shoes and my strife
Ugly, unsure when made so bare
You can judge if you want but I just won’t care

Trying to forget what happened back then
Trying to forget the choice to make when
Distractions, temptations, a temporal blindfold
I’ve broken my promise and again become too cold

How do you measure the end of a day?
When you turn off the lights, or your mind drifts away?
Or when once again you’re on your knees in lack
Hoping for two steps forward for every one taken back

This is a thought in the day in the life
Of a walk in the park in my shoes and my strife
Ugly, unsure when made so bare
You can judge if you want but I just won’t care

Sunday, June 21st 2009 Life and the Summer Solstice

Struggling against the waves
The threaten to surround
And drown
The words within my soul
My pen anchored to the floor
Leaden, weighted
Ironed ink
No words
No thoughts
It all just sinks in my soul
The waves of tomorrow
Pressing on my today
While yesterday claws
And refuses to let go
Leaden, weighted
Ironed memories
While I thrash in the dark
For a match
Critical decisions
And decisive criticism
In a mealstrome of confusion
Its simply life
But my words grow still heavy
My muse remains shut
And bound
And leaden
And weighted
And drowned
In this sea of my circumstance
And dwindling perspective
Which sinks ever lower
Into the mire of the present
On days like today
I just long to reach out
And grab eternity
And never let go
But on days like today
Especially days like today
Eternity becomes fleeting
And I’m left all alone
In the sea of my thoughts
And my feelings
And insecurities
And the things that haunt me
Deep in the night
And so as the storm
Break over my soul
And the rains blind
My last glimpse of perspective
The time has come
To make a decision
A crucial decision
Avoid their derision
Pick a commission
Pray for some vision
This is the first step
On a very long road
That begins in this boat
And leads across breakers
And walls of water
To a distant figure
Clothed in white
And hidden in light

Beautiful

You are so beautiful
This I know for sure
Even though I have never
Really seen Your face
But actually I have
I have seen your Eyes
In the shining night
I have heard Your voice
In the lightning's peal
I have felt Your arms
In the sun's warm rays
I have seen Your smile
In the beautiful sunset
I have hear Your breath
In a butterfly's wingbeat
I have felt Your hands
In the rain running over me
I have seen Your laugh
In the laugh of a child
I have seen Your face
and You are truly beautiful

Prayers

God grant us mercy in this new season
When waves of life crash down for no reason
God grant us grace for this coming decision
Open our eyes, give us Your vision.

God grant us patience for the coming trials
So our loves may endure through all of the miles
God grant us wisdom when we reach the junction
To hold on or let go; to follow Your every unction

God grant us Your love, unfailing, victorious
So we may pass through the storms that lay before us.
God grant us Your peace, with the paths we then choose
And the things that we gain, and the things that we loose.

God grant us Your Spirit in the coming fire
For Your face alone is our only desire.

Vision

And then I woke up. It had been a horrible dream, one I simply couldn’t shake. Its meaning danced upon the edges of my mind, and yet I could not comprehend. Slowly rising, the stifling hot air of the room enveloped me as I drifted to the door. But as I reached to open, a nock sounded from the other side. Before I could ask, the voice answered me.

“Did you figure it out yet?”

The door flew open and a dozen hands grabbed me from the void of the stairwell. I knew, quite certainly, that any moment my head would contact the solid brick wall that was just outside the door. I prepared myself for the pain, for the impact, for the coppery taste of blood. But there was none. Instead, I stumbled dumbly into a dark room, with a single white beam of light shining down from above it. Illuminating something. A chair?

I walked to the chair. It was an ordinary chair. It had a single cushion of indescribable colour, and was carved of wood or perhaps iron that was painted. I felt that I should sit on the chair. That it was my purpose for being there. To sit. But why? I would not know till I sat, I reasoned. So I did. I sat. And then it all happened.

The world opened up as a flower or the wings of a quivering butterfly, sights, sounds, feelings, scents, colors, touches, songs, words, heartbeats, all enveloping my soul in an instant. The stars fell from the sky, the earth rose up and bellowed, all of creation in a single, wild, frantic echoing roar. And then it was all gone.

A sharp breath. Ten million angels fastened their eyes upon me. The spreading, bleeding world of colors was replaced by a single table. No, not replaced. As I squinted and peered at a single grain on the table, I could just barely make out the ends of the universe, dancing there. No, I had increased in size, or at least, my perspective had. What was I seeing now then?

A single table. A single chair, which I still sat upon. A single plain stretching on and on upon the tabletop, beginning at the word “Light” and ending in infinity. A rather short distance, I realized. And in between those two close points was a square. A single square that had been divided into many more squares. There was a pattern. White. Black. White. Black. White. Black. And on and on it went. It reminded me of something I had seen before. A game. A diversion. Life?

There were pieces on the board. They moved. They turned. They shook. They cried. They bled. They lived. They died. They moved again. They built castles and tore them down. They took thrones and gave them back. They broke hearts and burned bridges and built bigots. I watched in astonishment. So this was how it all happened. This was it?

“No” said one of the pieces to me. “Some of us move where we want. Some of us move were we can’t and fall from the table top into oblivion. A soul lost into oblivion is a despondent thought indeed. But look, there are other movers and soon this board will be transformed.”

And so it was as the piece spoke. The board shook. The board broke and was sundered thoroughly. The pattern fell apart and the lines came together and instead of a board there were two paths, a black and white one. And they intersected only once. It was a big cross roads. I felt as if I had seen it all before. Had I?

And there at the crossroads I saw five pieces. A queen and her king. A lonely knight. A despondent bishop and his loyal pawn. They were all standing at the cross roads. The world began to fade, the colors returning as the dawn breaks upon the grey twilight light. And the figures made their decisions. Fires burned. Waters froze. Earth broke. Lightning bit. Wind stopped. Stars fell. People died. Trees burned. And all turned to ash at the rising of the Sun. Or was it merely my eyes opening?

And then I woke up. It had been a horrible dream, one I simply couldn’t shake. Its meaning danced upon the edges of my mind, and yet I could not comprehend. Slowly rising, the stifling hot air of the room enveloped me as I drifted to the door. But as I reached to open, a nock sounded from the other side. Before I could ask, the voice answered me.

“Did you figure it out yet?”

Pudicity

In the crowded walks of the cold city, the cobblestones clacked with the hard falls of heavy horseshoes. Flecks of snow and soot intermingled in the air, as men in dark cloaks and boys in barefeet looked busy on the cold winter day. From high above them, she sat behind her walls of glass, looking down at their comings and goings. Her soft, cool, alabaster hand reached forth and brushed against the glass, as if afraid to ripple the surface. She sighed.

From her vantage point high in the highest room of the large house she could see where all roads and paths in the city wound, like many spools of thread knocked over by her cat and scattered and mixed on her floor. She had traced their ways with her fingers many times, alabaster on ice as she found out their endings. Yet still she simply sat and sighed.

Visitors would oft come to her house. Tall men with short minds and short men with long minds and plain men with dull minds. Callers who stood beneath her window and waved to her in her castle of glass. She often waved back, and might even grace a smile. But she never came down, never rose from her crimson seat or dared to pass the raven doors. She simple sat and smiled and waved to the callers.

Several tried to break her out. But her glass castle was precious to her and she would not let them touch it. No sooner had they touched the door, then the castle grew enormous wings of velvet midnight and rose into the blue heavens. Some of the callers would stay for a while, staring up at her flying castle. Some felt scorned and left to find other castles. Some planted their feet beneath her castle, and through time eventualy turned into trees. So she amassed a small forest beneath the flying castle, and a small army of scorned lovers, and a whole country of men who would gaze longingly at the sky from time to time.

Some said she had gained true power. She had risen from the ranks, to that of a princess or a goddess, swaying men and ruling their hearts, never letting them have what they desired. Others said that she was no princess, but a witch, whose enchanted castle was made to break the hearts and wills of these young men and keep them hoping in an empty vanity. I decided to pay her a visit.

I took my top hat and umbrella and walked briskly through the square. I reached the eratz staircase that had been built over time by lovers trying to reach her, but instead, I spread my own ebony wings and flew up to the door. There, hovering before the large archway, I notticed that the doorway had a handle, but no keyhole. Instead of touching the door, I levered the handle with my umbrella handle. It opened with a click. I stepped inside as the scent of attar of roses flooded over me. Within, the air grew frigid and cool, and the feeling that all the world was watching me nearly overcame me. Yet still I pressed on towards the ever winding staircase and its road to the highest room.

I ascended the staircase and found only one door, at first thought to be raven hued. But as I drew to open it, it moved and I saw that it was in fact two ravens, blinded in one eye each, with writhing bodies that slithered across the entrance to the room. I bid them good day, and they eyed me each with their one good eye, as if searching my soul. When I felt their probe, I immediatly told them. I was not there to woo the witch-princess. I had merely come for tea. They saw the truth, and the light that was there, hidden deep in my breast, and allowed me to pass.

Her chamber spread out large and warm, with deep grained mahogany bookcases serrounding the entire circular room. In the center, was a small stone wall, also in a circle, and from this well rose a giant tree, old and knotted but glowing with soft golden light. The oaks heavy roots had overflown the well and spread across the floors, eventually going up the sides of the circular walls like pillars. The wide branches spread across the endless roof, and gold glowing leaves shivered gently in the ethereal wind. Beyond the leaves I could barely catch a glimpse of the universe spreading forth in stars and galaxies and supernovae and comets. She sat on her crimson chair, looking out over the world.

I sat opposite her. We talked. She smiled. I asked questions. She gave secret answers. The dialogue went back and forth until finally I stood to go. She smiled sweetly but the room got colder. The light in my breast sprang forth and burned through the illusion. The tree and the well and the bookcases and the roots and the stars and the warm golden light were gone. All that remained was cold, frozen ice.

"Won't you stay and have tea with me? We can read some of the great works."

"Can't you see that the bookcases are gone? Do you think you can still fool me with your illusions?"

"What do you mean? They are still here. Just look around."

That was when I realized it. She was no princess. She was no witch. She was a prisoner. Gazing into her cool, sky eyes, I saw the pain of a distant hurt that had crept in and never left. She had hidden in her castle, but it was no castle, it was a prison. A cold, uncaring prison, who shut all others out, and kept her illusions alive inside.

"Will you come outside with me?" I asked.

"Lets read one of the ancient tomes."

"Will you come outside with me?"

"Lets sit and look at the tree!"

"Will you come outside with me?"

"I'm not sure if I can trust my heart with anyone again..."

"I don't want your heart. I just want you to stand up and move again. To walk past the ravens that guard the door, to walk down the staircase of ice and contempt. To break down the keyholeless door. And descend the eratze stairs outside."

"But... but... they are out there!"

"People are out there. But if you could see. Could see past the icey illusions, you'd realize that you've kept many prisoner in here with you as well."

The multitude of faces stretching out into eternity around me nodded in agreement. She began to look past me, almost in fear, as if seeing them, before meeting my gaze again. Her eyes looked hurt.

"I wi-" and then there was another knock on the door. A new caller had come.

A yewman in green stood at the window and gazed up at the glass castle. She turned her gaze to him and smiled. He smiled back. It was as if I was no longer there. I sighed, the light that burned brightly before fading. The hope was dying and I knew why. It could not live long in this castle of styfling darkness. So I spread my inky wings and broke past the ravens and flew from the castle to find the sun once more. And I said a prayer for the prisoner in the glass castle. She was trapped in her ways and her castle was on a road that led to nowhere. The thread had been cut long ago.

Life

All the world's a mirror
All people wear blindfolds
All the sky is pale grey
All the sunset grow so cold

Who will dare to listen
Who will dare to do
To take off these weary facemask
And see the reality of you?

No one likes to see the truth
No one likes to know their lies
Yet finding true fulfillment
Starts with opening our eyes

To see our lives for what they are
To see the hearts behind our hands
To follow the threads of reason
Into our past, those cold and distant lands

Who will dare to listen
Who will dare to do
To take off these weary facemask
And see the reality of you?

Follow threads of raw emotion
To the secret place of pain
From where springs wrath and envy
From where you flinch at a name

Why do you do what you do?
Why do you seek that one thing?
Why have you still not gotten it?
When will your life truly begin?

Dare to find the secret pain
Hidden deep within your soul
Dare to seek and find a way
To heal the wound and become whole

The things you do without thinking
The things you think without just cause
These are the triggers the subtle hints
They should be considered, take a moment and pause

Find them out in the dark places
Bring them to the glorious light
Let healing and forgiveness enter
Do not resist it, do not fight

When you know why you do what you do
Then you can decide to stop of keep going
But either way, with more self discovery
You'll feel yourself start growing

So look, look, follow those clues
Find them, in your past's dark halls
Expose them to the light of truth
And no longer answer their silent calls

Take charge of your life
Live each day for your King
Laugh loud, run fast, breathe deep
And learn, with all your heart, to sing

Letter of Introduction

Dearest Reader,

The work in your hands is a small drop of water from a vast reservoir of creativity. This is not said in boasting, as a dam cannot take credit as the source of the water it holds back. No. What sets one reservoir apart from another is their capacity to hold the water from the rivers and rains, and their ability (and willingness) to expand that capacity.

But I am more than mere capacity. I am more than the sum of my actions and labors. I am something beyond them, transcending them, simultaneously their source and their purpose. My art does not define me; I am what defines my art. My thoughts are the flowers of my soul; my art, the fruit of it. Yet the tiny bumblebee that sips from my flowers and eats of my fruit cannot begin to comprehend the vastness of the tree, and further yet, the ground in which is lays anchor, or still further, the ever-bright sun from which all life drinks. For we are all bees and cannot see what lies beyond the five petals before us.

Yet I am no bee. I am a man. A man in the sense that I am a human. A man in the sense that I am biologically male. A man in the sense that while I am neither stone, nor flower, nor bee, nor angel, but something entirely separate, yet I am still a part of the Largerness, the all encompassing symphony. I breathe and a millions leaves on the tree outside my window breathe with me. I sing and ten million voices throughout the world harmonize. I shine and with me, a hundred million stars in the universe burn with empyreal passion. We are all men in that respect, and the world rejoices with us daily in the uncountable miracles. If, we simply stop buzzing and part the petals before our faces.

I am a child. A very young child. Every new kernel of sand I find magnifies only the vastness of the unexplored desert before me. I search out these older children in hopes that they will teach me their games and sing me their songs and show me their hearts and bring me their stories of what they found in this desert. And yet the ocean of sand remains, running through our fingers the moment we think we grasp any of it. I am a child, and wish to remain this way, always playing hide and seek with knowledge, while never letting go of the truth I have been given.

You may at this point be searching for a compass in this desert of mirages and metaphors, grasping at your own sand for a base to build on. But that is life. And that is inquiry. And that is self discovery. Utterly futile. Like carving your likeness in dry, desert sands. Pull apart the petals before you and all you will find are twisting branches in a maze of chaos, the guidelines on the petals giving way to a network of twigs and vines and branches and leaves and lines upon lines of useless dialogue. No compass can direct you here; you must step back and see the tree for the tree and the fruit for the fruit and the earth for the earth and the bees for the bees. Carve your image out of stone instead, and then break it apart to build an altar to something bigger than yourself. That is true perspective, true art, true life.

I am: alive. I think. I breathe. I move. I shake. I cry. I bleed. I hurt. I heal. I forgive. I do not forget. I learn. I move, more. I find more. I build more. I break less. I think more or less. I sit. I ponder. I stand. And shout. I run. And run. And run. And jump. And sometimes. I lie. Beneath the moon. And listen. To the silence. Of the world. And my soul. And reflect. Like the moon. The light. From the sun. On the tree. With the flowers. And the bees. And I rest. And I am still. And I do not move. And I hold my breath. And I do not think. And in that silence. That reflective silence. I know that I am alive. Which is different. So very different. From simply letting life live me.

I am a vessel. We are all vessels. What we decide to pour into our lives, we will pour out into others’ lives and becomes our work, our art. I work, daily, to wash my vessel, so when I catch the rains in it, my walls are clean and my basin is pure, so my waters may be sweet. I have found that how I receive something, determines what I pour out; that my internal walls can affect the taste of the rivers that flow out of my life. No matter how much pure water flows into a dam, if the walls are caked with corpses, the water remains bitter that flows out. Not only must my walls remain flexible and ever expand their capacity; they must be cleansed more frequently than less, to guard against life’s attitudes and the old, dead things which collect in my life. I am a washer of walls.

I am a giggle in the vast expanse of the universe and time. A single, solitary breathe of air. Invisible. Incomparable. Barely touchable. I live for only a moment, have only a brief second before I am gone. My time to touch you is short. Our time together is even shorter. Brevity is humanity, and the brighter a flame burns, the faster its fuel is depleted. Everyone must decide how they will use their fuel. Burn softly, dully, stretching life out as long as they can, or burn brightly, outshining all before and after them, even if the cost is brevity. History teach us: the greats die young anyway. But then we’re all still children and can all expand to greatness.

I am a philosopher who hates philosophy. A romantic who loves reason. A scientist who practices active use of my imagination. I am cold fire, and dry water. I am the bee and the tree and the breath between them. I am a drop of sand in the vast desert inside the hourglass cemented to the base of the universe within the speck of dust that is eternity. When I write, my art begins and ends with this knowledge. Everything I do is worth nothing. And everything I do is worth everything. It is the divine paradox of life. We are worth nothing and everything, and a peach tree only makes more peaches.

I prize the peaches of my tree, and work long and hard to produce them. From within the folds of my own soul, I bring forth thought-flowers. Sometimes they originate in past experiences. Sometimes they are the manifestation of recognized personal hopes or maybe fears. Often, they are spontaneous. Spontaneous in that no pack of bloodhounds or herd of psychologist could find their point of origin. They are merely thoughts that happen to appear from within me, as this letter to you, dearest Reader, is. However, though the source of the origin my be spontaneous, the origin itself is not arbitrary. It has taken many long years, but I have trained myself to produce at least one a day. One flower each day, to become one fruit each night.

Once my flower of thought has opened itself, it is cross-pollinated by my life. By my experiences. By my encounters. By my gained wisdom. By my foolishness. By the lives of others. By the universe. By small bumblebees at my window. By Virgil and Keats and Shelly and MacDonald. By countless cups of coffee. By my eyes. By my tongue. By my heart. By other peach blossoms until finally the kernel of life has awoken within my thought.

And then I write. I expand the base of the flower, letting the superlative petals wither and fall. There will always more petals in the morrow. I let the base expand, searching within it till I have found the seed I wish to sow. Then I begin incasing it with layers of sweet flesh and thick, sticky nectar, to make it more palatable to the little bees. I let it grow, let it mature, till the large, velvety fruit hangs low from the branches of my soul. Hangs ready to be plucked from my arboreal arms. Some will come and taste the fruit, and eat the flesh, but will throw away the pit. That is fine. It will still take root, will still grow. Even when they cannot grasp, cannot understand, cannot receive the pit beneath the flesh, the earth will still gladly accept these refined ideas into its warm folds. And someday the pits will be gathered together and we will sit in the sand and count them out, and read their wrinkled surfaces as one reads the face of an old friend and we will laugh that some would choose the flesh over the seed.

Dearest Reader, what you hold in your hands right now is another peach. Its skin is thin and its flesh is even thinner. The pit can be seen without taking a bite. Hold it up to the light and you can see the deeper part of this fruit. As you have already tasted, it still gushed with honeyed nectar, not to hide the pit but to sweeten it to your mouth and mind and heart. If you do not want this pit, you do not have to keep it. It is, after all, my pit from my peach from my flower from my tree. I offer it, but it does not need to be accepted. If you want, you may feast on the thin layer of flesh, and drink the fountains of nectar within and praise this letter merely for its poetic and symbolic value. Or you can ponder the pit. Learn to read its lines. Dare to look at the meaning etched there. I cannot guarantee you will like it. But what I can guarantee is this. It will bring new life.

Sincerely,
The Author

A Poem for a Graduate

The runner's run their races
The crowd yell and cheer
The sea of expectant faces
Sharing in your hopes and fears

A shot and you're all away now
The others do their parts
But they cannot keep up with you
Because you ran with all your heart

Congradulations
On your special day
Its been a journey
You've come the way
Congradulations
You're at the end
And yet the begining
Is just round the bend

In those last three slow seconds
Your heart beating like a drum
The flash of a million cameras
As you cross the line, you're number one

But its not the end of your journey
Just a key to a next door
So the gifts and skills you have learned
Can be used now, for something more

Congradulations
On your special day
Its been a journey
You've come the way
Congradulations
Look where you came from
And just remember
The best is yet to come

Congradulations, its been a good run
Congradulations, the best is still to come

Red Memories of the Moon in June

Come, come, come to me my children
For I have a tale that must be told
Of a far off land of greatness and splendor
Where dwelt the dragon emperors of old

Oh the sun rises red over mountains blue
Plum blossoms drift in the sad breeze
A song echoes through forest of bamboo
Who can remember, who can forget, these

In this far away land there was a place
The greatest courtyard of stone ever seen
Two ancient gates and an ancient palace
Stood beside it, and all the ancestors between

Oh the sun has risen into the fair blue sky
Withering the blossoms of the precious plum
The day had come and the night had died
Where are you, O white shirted one?

They gathered there the bright eyed youths
To mourn a hope fallen and gone
They came in thousands to light candles
And to honor him with their hope songs

The Sun is setting, the light fades away
The breeze is cold now, the stars unmade
The heavens are red at the dying of day
And foul shadows cast now inky shades

They broke down the statue of fair liberty
They shot all the students in the square
They ran over bones and bicycles in their tanks
They told the world no one should care

Yet in darkest night rises fair Chenge’e
Yue’s silver face of hope in the night
And so their memory and bravery shine true
And no army, red or blue, can extinguish their light

Remember Tiananmen
Remember the Square
Remember the Young Ones
Who gave their lives there

Remember Tiananmen
Remember the place
Remember your principles
Do not, their memory, disgrace

The Silence

the silence
is roaring
is digging
is empty
is ready
is silently
silent

the silence
is killing
and burning
and beating
is breaking
the windows
and empty
and silent

The silence
the silence
is silent
still silent
the silence
sweet silence
bitter silent
tears of silence
is silently
falling

in empty
cold air
the silence
is raining
and reigning
and resting
and killing
the muse
and breaking
the lyre
cracked lips
of the poet

the silence
is golden
no more.

Night Rain

Sighs and thoughts
Intrude my solitude
They press upon me
Like the humid air
They beg and plead
For too many answers
While my coffee gets lower
And lower with the sun
But the promising clouds
Lie to the parched air
And shed no tears
Instead pressing harder
Upon my cup
Of bitter black coffee
Getting lower and lower
As the night draws near

The world is warm
Stifling, unbearable
And all the air begs
For the release of tension
But still no wind
…Nor drop…
Nor arch of lightning
Nothing to slice
The concrete atmosphere
The tension degrades
Into complacent decay
Festering corpse words
And expectant weariness
The world waits silently
Holding its breath
While my coffee gets lower
And lower…
and lower…

But still nothing
Still there is nothing
Nothing! Nothing. Nothing…
And now my cup
Stands alone and empty
I peer beyond the rim
And catch a single glimpse
The universe swirls inside it
For a second, for a second
I see my self
Looking into a cup
Without any coffee
Watching myself
Watch myself

And then there was light
And with it came too
Understanding and remembrance
And the eyes to see
The world from the view
The right view
And the View of views
Whose view of my cup
Was running over still
With the rains of the night